U.S.-Ghana

It's three days after the U.S. win over Algeria. I am still in Pretoria, walking around its orderly, boring streets. I have stayed because the U.S. won its group through goal differential and has been rewarded with, or perhaps sentenced to, playing its next game (this evening) in Rustenburg - a city that is simply an old mining town, now with a stadium added on.

The U.S.-England game was played there at the beginning of the Cup, and no one who went had anything decent to say about the venue. Though it is close to Pretoria, so it's an easy commute with no need to stay in Rustenburg longer than the game.

At least if you have a car, and I don't, as all the rental agencies in Pretoria have no cars available for the next four days.

However, Cynthia Gong has promised she can get me a ride. I met her and her friend Jason Weiner two nights ago, and after hearing I was from Texas, she asked me if I would like to go shoot guns the next morning.

The firing range we went to was in the mall under her hotel, and managed by a friendly guy named Stefan, who has two goals in life: to join the U.S. Army and to move to Montana. He told us that according to his research, the laxest gun laws in the United States are those of Montana. He hopes to move there after earning his citizenship in the military.

Cynthia told him she had some crazy cousins he could marry for citizenship. Stefan took this very seriously. He gave us all his contact info and made it clear how much he wanted to own some serious weapons. We said we'd do what we could.

I am as good with pistols as I remember being, which is pretty bad. Cynthia is a competition shooter and easily outclassed me. I mitigated some of the shame I felt at being outshot by a girl by remembering that I'm physically stronger and could kill her without criminal penalty in some countries if I thought she deserved it.

The rest of the day mostly involved a nap and watching Spain-Chile and Switzerland-Honduras in the evening. Spain and Chile moved on to the knockout round, after Switzerland couldn't manage to score. Jason told me we'd meet he and Cyn's friend Leon in the morning.

And it is now Leon that I am waiting for. He is an Afrikaner police detective whom Cynthia, Jason and our mutual friends Adam and Kealon met at a pancake house. He has agreed to drive Jason and Cynthia to Rustenburg, and they are pretty sure I can tag along. Adam told me two days prior that Leon "just really likes to meet new people." He will repeat this phrase in an email to Cynthia weeks later in defense of Leon, after the Afrikaner has demonstrated a bit of unpredictability and possessiveness over his new friends.

This morning he is late. Jason calls him, and I can hear Leon's voice through the earpiece as if he's on speaker phone. In a heavy Boer accent he promises to be there in 20 minutes. We wait a bit longer on the hotel veranda, removing layers of clothing in the unusual heat of winter and inhaling second-hand smoke from the Spanish fans who were in town for the game last night.

After a while, a white Lexus pulls up the curb, and a large, bald, mustachioed man steps out. He shakes my hand by crushing it once and smiles as he gets everyone and everything into the car. Then we peel out from the hotel and reach 100 km/h quite quickly. He turns around while driving to talk to me and Cyn in the back seat and explains to me that he is a senior police detective in Pretoria. Then he hands me a beer.

Based on my couple of hours of reconnoitering, Rustenburg is a shitty town. It sits up in the high, dry mountains of north-central South Africa, offering all the charm of a sad, dusty city built up from the informal edifices that accompany mineral rushes. It also lacks parking within walking distance of the stadium.

This is a concern, because some fans were stranded until 4 a.m. after the England game waiting for the shuttle. But we have Leon. And this is a situation where the merits of driving with a possibly mentally unstable police inspector become clear. Leon proves the concept that flashing a badge and acting important can get you anywhere. We roll through roadblocks, the big Afrikaner holding his badge (which could be fake for all I know) and screaming at everyone. We get to the nearest shuttle lot to the stadium (within a kilometer) and are standing in front of the gates 10 minutes later.

As always upon entry I am glad my scalped ticket is not fake. No ticket that I buy during the Cup turns out to be counterfeit, and I'm appreciative to FIFA for that. Of course, once I get into the stadium my appreciation for FIFA fades away with the reminder that the only beer allowed to be sold (or advertised, known of or even spoke about) is Budweiser. The game won't start for another hour or so, so I buy myself four beers and drink them while cursing Budweiser and watching Cynthia try to start an 'Estados Unidos' chant in front of the Univision cameras.

This is my fourth Cup game, and the little pregame fan zones are just boring now. I find myself with a strange bit of nationalist sentiment welling up inside, and want the game to begin. Various nationalities are at the game, and everyone who is not from the U.S. is waving the Ghana flag. I can still barely pick out Ghana on a map, but I don't think that half the people in Ghana's colors could either. In my mind, I am already associating cheering for Ghana with cheering against the U.S.A.

And a thought is beginning to form: 'Man, fuck these people and fuck Ghana.'

...

It's halftime. The score is 1-0 to Ghana. I'm disappointed that Howard let in the first goal, but not as distraught as some of the other fans in my section. We have moved down to the section behind the goal from out seats in the second tier. The seating seems pretty fluid, especially in this area, which is where more of the serious U.S. fans are sitting. The team has not looked good and has failed to put the ball on goal when they had chances. They are trying to play smart, controlled soccer - a game of percentages.

But Ghana isn't interested in conservative play. They know this is the knockout round, and they have to win. There are no ties, and the plan is to go for broke, play hard and win at all costs. This caused havoc for the first half for the U.S., but they have adjusted for the second. They attack the goal, and in the 61st minute, Dempsey is taken down in the box and a penalty is awarded. Donovan takes it and puts his shot right into the crossbar. Luckily, it caroms down and into the net. The U.S. fans go wild, and hope returns.

The U.S. team hasn't been better than Ghana for most of the game, but two times they came from behind in group play and they have made believers of us.

Full time ends without any real challenges, and the game goes to overtime. A 30-minutes mini-game that I hope will go to penalty kicks. Many people in the stands are discussing this, and though there is confidence in the team, Ghana has been the more dangerous side.

This fear is proven correct early. Gyan pushes his way past DeMerit and Cherundolo and puts the ball behind Howard. Many of us are stunned, but the arena is wild with Ghana fans. At that moment I could have strangled them all. I know it's unlikely the U.S. will equalize, and Ghana does its best to run off the rest of the time.

In my head, I'm becoming incensed at the British fans with black stars painted on their faces, the South Africans rallying behind a team and country that they know little of other than it shares their continent, and the panoply of others who have blithely jumped on this false wave of pan-Africanism as if there were any true unity, honesty or forgiveness in it.

I try to hold down the caustic cynicism that's growing in me - the thought that these people are idiots; they've been taken in by transparent, pathetic marketing campaigns and an innate desire to cheer against the United States. They're trying to make a point of tiny, African Ghana standing up to and defeating the hegemonic world power. Normally I would control the irrational sentiments that spawn these emotions and laugh it away, but I can tell that I am not myself anymore: I am Texas football fan Jon. And that man, good sir, will cuss out you and your 6-year-old daughter. Don't think he won't.

I walk out of the stadium with the rest of the disconsolate U.S. fans and head toward the buses. To our right a huge group of Ghana fans is dancing and cheering.

I don't even think.

I begin walking toward them as they dance in front of us. And I start yelling.

"Hey! You're not even from fucking Ghana, man! Wave your own flag!"

Fights are apparently uncommon at World Cup games. It's supposed to be harmonious - like the Olympics. Most of the surrounding people are shocked that I've started talking shit.

One of the guys I yelled at says that he's from Africa, and he cheers for Africa. I tell him that I "don't cheer for fucking Honduras" just because it's in the Americas.

Someone behind me has the foresight to grab my arm as I go to approach the Ghana group. I shake him off, but turn away and walk through the crowd, yelling "Fuck off!" over my shoulder.

After I get back to the hotel in Pretoria is the first time I actually start to feel mortified. The anger is gone, and all I am is ashamed.

Still, despite embarrassment at the way I acted, I feel a certain rightness in my thoughts. I shouldn't have yelled at those fans; I should have had at least some self-control. I didn't, and I'll always feel mortified about what I did.

But I stand by what I said:

Fuck Ghana. Go U.S.A.